


Glastonbury

by Tari_Sue



Series: Camelot Land [10]
Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-29
Updated: 2014-05-29
Packaged: 2018-02-07 20:52:39
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 809
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1913439
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tari_Sue/pseuds/Tari_Sue
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They say that King Arthur is buried under Glastonbury Tor</p>
            </blockquote>





	Glastonbury

**Title:** Glastonbury Tor  
 **Prompt(s):** Wide Awake  
 **Word Count:** 771  
 **Rating:** none  
 **Pairings (if any):** none (but always Merlin/Arthur in my head)  
 **Warnings:** this is drivel  
 **Summary:** They say that King Arthur is buried under Glastonbury Tor

 

Thud, thud, thud, thud…

Arthur frowns in his sleep, his head turns slightly as though trying to get away from the source of the noise but he soon settles and slumbers on.

 

Thud, thud, thud, thud…

 

The king frowns again, a small noise of discontent escapes him, but still he does not waken.

 

Thud, thud, thud, thud…

 

The noise is relentless. At last a bright blue eye opens.

“Merlin?” Arthur croaks. His throat feels dry, his voice unused.

He attempts to sit. His movements feel sluggish. How long has he slept? It’s dark in his room; he can’t have slept that long.

 

Thud, thud, thud, thud…

 

What is that noise? Why won’t they stop?

He is awake now, he might as well rise. Where the hell is Merlin?

He rises from his bed. Since when was his bed so hard? It feels like granite.

A low light is burning somewhere. As his eyes become accustom to the gloom, he can make out shapes. He is suddenly more than awake, wide awake.

This is not his room. Where the hell is he? Has he been captured?

“Merlin?” he croaks again, attempting to be quiet this time.

 

Thud, thud, thud, thud…

He cannot find his armour or his sword.

He makes his way down what seems to be a tunnel of some sort. His feet feel like lead, his muscles unused, like he’s been in bed for days. The place is too quiet, unnaturally so. There is no one here. 

Thud, thud, thud, thud…

The noise is getting closer now. The tunnel is sloping up. 

His fingers find cobwebs as he feels his way along the walls. He could be walking into a trap, but he has to do something.

The light is getting better, but not much.

Thud, thud, thud, thud…

How long has he been walking now? 

Minutes?

Hours?

He wants to stop. Rest. He must push on.

Thud, thud, thud, thud…

It’s music of some sort. Possibly. Not any kind of music that Arthur has ever heard before. Incessant.

After what feels like days, he makes his way out into the evening air. The music stopped some time ago. 

The sight before him is like something out of a nightmare.

Down in a field below there are many people milling about. If this is an army set to attack Camelot, he doesn’t think the citadel will be in any danger. These people look drunk, or recovering from being drunk. There is no military order or authority. But he can think of no other reason for so many people to be collected in one place. Are they simply some sort of rabble horde?

Signs of witchcraft are everywhere. Strange lights fill the sky. Whole immense impossible structures appear to be made purely from metal. The smells, the noise, everything is off.

He makes his way down the hill.

One of them notices him and speaks. It is a language he doesn’t understand so he shakes his head. The person, he is not entirely sure if it is a male or female, speaks again, louder. He replies in the common tongue, tries to explain that he doesn’t understand.

Soon, there are more people. They stare at him and continue to talk in their strange tongue.

Two men seem to be in charge now. They wear a bright, impossibly yellow colour. They have some sort of device with other-worldly blue lights that flash. Arthur may not have Excalibur, but he takes a fighting stance anyway.

Then suddenly, there it is. A voice he would know anywhere.

“Arthur?”

And yet the voice is not the same. Different. Older.

“Merlin?” His voice is still raspy. He needs water.

He looks around, trying to find those dark blue eyes, the shock of dark hair.

“Oh my god, Arthur…” the voice says again.

And then there he is. And it’s not Merlin. It’s an old man, with wild hair and a beard. 

Dragoon? It looks like him, but not. A vague memory. Dragoon was Merlin? How could he have forgotten that?

The old man is speaking to the strange people in their own language, gesturing towards Arthur. Suddenly everyone else is going and it is just Arthur and the old man.

“I told them you were my grandson, over from Sweden,” the old man says.

“Who are you?”

“You knew me a moment ago, Sire.”

“You can’t be him. He’s just a boy.”

“You know it’s me, Arthur. I told you I’d wait.”

“How long?”

“Long.”

There is a look of sadness in the old man’s eyes. Dark-blue eyes. No one has such dark-blue eyes.

“Merlin?”

“Arthur.”


End file.
